The Past Always Comes Back To Haunt
by S. Thanatos
Summary: AU. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley get summer jobs as gofers for a movie crew. With help from actress Hermione Granger, Harry unravels his past - including how movie star Sirius Black fits into it.
1. 01

Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine. All hail J.K. Rowling.

Chapter One

To look at them, the Dursleys were a completely normal, if thick-waisted, family. They were all tall and fair, the wife as thin as the husband was fat, and the little son more resembling a pig than either of his parents. The only discrepancy to them was their dark human shadow.

Harry Potter had the smudged and haunted eyes of an insomniac. His hair was a rumpled, wild mass of soot black that fell in locks over his face, covering his glasses and green eyes. Once a year his Aunt Petunia would take shears to Harry's head and crop his hair close to his skull. Harry's hair grew out quickly, however, and was back to normal within a month.

He had lived with his aunt, uncle, and cousin since the age of one, his parents having been killed in an auto accident. Aunt Petunia was his mother's sister, Uncle Vernon her husband, and Dudley their son. They resented having the care of Harry, thinking he was no more than an unmanageable bundle on their already over-burdened lives.

To minimize the presence of the non-Dursley entity within their household, they shut Harry in the cupboard under the stairs. Harry would remember, years later, crying in his parody of a room. Vernon had burst in and stamped over to Harry, picked him up by his shoulders, and shook him hard enough that his teeth rattled and he saw lights for hours afterwards, even when he closed his eyes. Harry had been four.

Vernon couldn't do the same thing when Harry was eleven because, under grown as he was, Harry was still too big for the cupboard to accommodate another person; much less Vernon and his paunch. That was one of the things that made Harry's eleventh birthday the happiest of his life so far.

The other things were that his bully of a cousin Dudley was sent to Smeltings, the same school Vernon had gone to; that Harry got to go to Stonewall High where the kids at least ignored him instead of beating him up; and that he met his first (and best) friend.

Ron Weasley was freckled in the true tradition of red-heads, with easily burnt fair skin and a friendly smile. He didn't go to Stonewall High with Harry, saying, "My family's Catholic. Private school for us, the whole lot. Six boys and one girl; six siblings in all for me."

Harry's eyes had widened. He imagined living with six Dudleys and shuddered. Still, maybe brothers and sisters were different from cousins….

They had met in a park two days before school began for Harry. Ron had been playing chess against one of the old guys who hung around. Ron had been winning, and Harry was curious to see how the game would end. When Ron had finally gotten the old guy into checkmate, Ron had looked up with warm eyes to smile at Harry. "Fancy a go?" he'd asked.

Harry laughed self-consciously. No one his own age had ever invited him to JOIN in anything. "Uh… I wouldn't be any good at it," he said. He felt his face turning red, probably as red as a tomato.

Ron shrugged. "Doesn't matter. You just have to learn, s'all. You're probably not as bad as you think you are." Then he'd introduced himself.

Since then they'd met nearly every weekend for five years, and Harry had a standing invitation to join the Weasleys for dinner, lunch, or breakfast. Mrs. Weasley adored him, mothering him wildly with food and hugs. The rest of the family seemed to adopt Harry as one of their own; and Harry discovered that, surprisingly, Weasley siblings were not anywhere near as horrible as Dudley, even when they all ganged up on him.

Harry was escaping to the Weasleys the morning his aunt and uncle had gone to pick up his cousin from the train station. It was early June and Dudley had just finished his fifth year at Smeltings. Harry wasn't looking forward to a summer of Dudley's bullying – especially since Dudley had joined a gang the previous year.

In the Weasleys' comfortable kitchen, Mrs. Weasley was pushing a plate laden with pancakes and syrup to Harry, beaming fondly at the boy who looked painfully undernourished. "Eat up, dear," she encouraged. "There's plenty more for seconds. You were telling me of your birthday plans yesterday?"

Harry blushed. "Oh, I don't have any, Mrs. Weasley," he said. "It's not very important anyway."

"Pish!" Mrs. Weasley flapped her hands as if waving the idea of 'not very important' away. "You'll be turning sixteen! It certainly is important!"

Ron, sitting next to Harry with his own stack of pancakes, snickered lightly and glanced apologetically to his friend. He was just starting to devour his breakfast when the twins – Fred'n'George – popped up behind him, one at each shoulder.

"Ickle Ronniekins!" they exclaimed together. "Just the brother we were wanting to see." At eighteen the twins were identical. Tall, marked with the Weasley red, and miraculously tanned, they were the family's practical jokesters and maniacal inventors. They'd moved out of the house after graduation the year before, but still frequently popped up at 'The Burrow' – Mr. Weasley's affectionate term for the old family house.

Ron turned to give his brothers a suspicious look. He chewed and asked, "What do you want me for?"

"Oh, nothing troublesome," Fred (or was it George?) assured.

"Yeah," George (Fred?) quickly added. "Just a small task."

"Such as…?" Ron had long ago learned not to trust whenever his brothers said 'nothing' and 'just'.

"We just need you to-"

"Go over to the special effects store in town and let Flitwick know that-"

"We won't be able to work for him this summer."

Harry's neck was getting whiplash from looking between Fred and George so quickly. It was always interesting watching them talk because they switched in the middle of sentences, one beginning and the other ending.

"Why can't you go yourselves?" Ron asked.

The twins shrugged exaggeratedly, palms up and fingers wide. "The jobs we did get-"

"start early in the morning. In fifteen minutes-"

"actually. We wanted to be sure-"

"old Flitwick got the message-"

"that we couldn't come. Since you've-"

"got nothing to do-"

"we thought you wouldn't mind."

Ron exchanged a look with Harry. Harry barely twitched his eyebrow, but Ron knew how to read the other boy. He said to his brothers, "Yeah, sure, nothing else to do today. Me'n'Harry'll take care of it."

Fred beamed and clapped Ron on the shoulder. George mirrored his twin's action on Harry. "A lad couldn't ask for better little brothers," they chorused, and dashed out the door on their way to their new job – the one they'd be late to if they didn't run.

XXX

Ron and Harry set out to walk to Filius Flitwick's special effects studio after they'd finished eating. It was a fifteen minute walk on normal days, but Harry was stumbling slowly along with a dazed look on his face. Ron looked over at Harry in concern, asking, "Alright there?"

Harry breathed out a long, long breath, and blinked as if in shock. "They… they called me their little brother."

"Well, I understand why that would make you look as if the world were ending," Ron joked. "I AM their little brother and it's typically hell."

"No," Harry shook his head. He turned to Ron. "No… I mean… Oh God, I don't know what I mean." He ducked his head down shyly and said with a voice that was almost a whisper, "They called me their brother."

Ron's eyes softened. He casually looped an arm over Harry's shoulders, difficult given their vastly differing heights. There were times when Harry seemed a hundred instead of his fifteen years with an ancient light in his jaded eyes and a bleak outlook on life. Then he said or did something so endearingly vulnerable that he was all of five. "Well, you are you know," Ron told Harry.

They walked the rest of the way in companionable silence.

* * *

A/N: This'll be my brain-dead story arc, which I'll write in when I need to fluff up my brain. Sirius'll pop up in later chapters, have no fear, but don't expect frequent updates (as if anyone expects those from me!). 


	2. 02

Flitwick's store (named, simply, "Flitwick's Store") was where jokesters like the twins got their material from if they were building from scratch. It was a small building packed to the rafters with prime goods, but really made its money with state-of-the-art computer software that could add specialized effects to movies, or even simply edit them, giving them their professional look.

Ron and Harry entered, calling out a greeting. An old and wizened head poked out from the back storeroom. It squinted in their direction and stepped out. Flitwick, though also old and wizened, was not this old man. "Who are you?" Ron blurted, tactless as ever.

"Ollivander," the old man replied. "The silent partner to this business. Who are YOU?"

"Er. Fred and George Weasley sent-" Ron began to reply, but was cut off by Ollivander.

"Weasley, eh. Filius told me to expect you two. He said to tell you that we didn't need any help around here after all, but that they needed people over at the set and that he'd saved you positions." Ollivander ducked back into the storeroom abruptly.

Harry and Ron exchanged bemused glances. "Excuse us," Ron called out, "but we-"

Ollivander's head stuck out of the room, and said, "The set is in the Leaky Cauldron down the street. Good day."

It was a very clear dismissal. The two boys exchanged a look and shrugged at teach other. Leaving the store, Harry said, "May as well."

The Leaky Cauldron was an inn, the fanciest one outside of London. It cost two hundred pounds a night for its cheapest room, and so only the richest travelers stayed there and rarely for more than a day. It was a large stone building, old and with a personality that was palpable.

They walked in, Harry smiling slightly at the doorman, who waved at him. Seamus Finnegan was a friendly classmate that had gotten a summer job. The front hall of the Leaky Cauldron was vaulting, gilt with mobiles of planets and stars that were so realistic Harry almost thought he'd been hurled into outer space. The floor beneath them was marbled black and resounded with Harry and Ron's footsteps as they approached the front desk.

A pretty young woman stood behind it, her name-tag reading Penelope Clearwater. She dimpled a smile at Harry and Ron and waved a finger at them. "Now boys," she said, "no one's to sneak in to bother the actors. Don't you think you're the first two to try!"

Ron asked, "Actors?" He shook his head. "No, we're looking for Mr. Flitwick. Fred and George Weasley-"

"Oh!" Penelope leaned down under her desk, glossy chestnut curls bouncing. She came back up with two nametags and beamed at Harry and Ron. "I was told to expect you." She handed the name tags, similar to her own save that theirs' read 'Fred Weasley' and 'George Weasley'. "Miss McGonagall said to send you to her as soon as you arrived. She's just down the hall, conference room 3A. Have fun, boys!"

"But we're not-" Ron began to protest, but gave up when Penelope started to hum. He hadn't noticed that she was listening to a discman as her thick hair hid the earpieces and the discman was beneath the desk. He stuck his nametag on, giving up. Apparently the world wanted him to be Fred today, and Harry George.

Ron and Harry set out for Conference Room 3A. "Do you think I'll ever get to complete a sentence?" Ron asked plaintively. Harry shook his head and smiled as if he were holding back laughter.

"Actors and sets," Harry mused. "Definitely another movie." The Leaky Cauldron had been used as the setting for many movies.

Ron nodded in agreement as they reached 3A. Harry knocked at the door, and a Scottish voice briskly called out, "Come in!"

Harry opened the door slowly, and Ron entered first. Miss McGonagall was a stern woman with black hair swept up in an emerald green beret, sitting behind a table covered in papers. She was either in her late fifties or early sixties, but retained youthful vigour in addition to rock hard dignity. Her eyes snapped from Ron to Harry and then their nametags. She smiled, but it only reached her mouth; her eyes looked too weary for happiness.

"Weasleys," she nodded. "Sit down." They did, across from her. "Mr. Flitwick highly recommended you both as bright, able workers. The pay is six pounds an hour, and the hours you are required to work will vary. We need a gofer for Mr. Dumbledore and for the technical team; it does not matter which of you takes either job."

Harry said, "Excuse me, but we're not-" and felt Ron's sharp elbow digging into his ribs.

McGonagall looked at them quizzically, but before she could question them, a girl's high-pitched shriek split the air. She sighed and massaged her temple as if this were an hourly occurrence. She stood and walked into the hall, heading for a room further down, where the scream had originated. Harry and Ron followed behind her, Harry rubbing his side.

"Sorry," Ron apologized, "but I had to stop you. We could be making money, Harry, and pretty good money too! All we've got to do is pretend we're Fred and George. Piece of cake."

Harry frowned, then nodded. He disliked deception, but would do anything Ron asked of him.

Ahead, McGonagall was pulling open a door and was conversing with someone they couldn't see in a low voice. A young woman pushed past McGonagall and stomped down the hall. Her face was a thundercloud and she was muttering, "… don't care HOW much they pay me, never EVER again…" Her nametag read 'Katie Bell'.

Ron said, "Bet you anything one of us'll wind up with the job she just quit." And he pushed Harry forward so that he was the first one McGonagall saw when she looked back at them.

"George Weasley!" McGonagall called.

Harry looked down at his nametag in dread. Yes, it DID read 'George Weasley'. He threw a half-hearted glare over his shoulder to Ron, and then went bravely forward.

McGonagall took him by the shoulder as soon as he was in grabbing reach, as if to keep him from running. He could finally see who it was that had caused the trouble: a bushy-haired girl, who looked to be his age, with a defiant chin and blazing brown eyes. "George Weasley, Hermione Granger," McGonagall introduced them crisply. "She'll be in your care from now on, Weasley. Miss Granger, DO try to keep this one for longer than an hour." McGonagall turned and whirled off, leaving the two teens to stare at one another.

Hermione Granger took a look at Harry's face, sniffed, turned back to go into her room, and slammed the door behind her. Harry sat down outside of her room. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

A/N: I actually have no clue about appropriate working wages in pound denominators, so let's just pretend that 6 pounds an hour is equivalent to 8.50 or so Canadian, alright? Unless anyone would care to enlighten me… please, enlighten me! Especially about the 'two hundred pounds a night' – is that too much or too little? Ah, I hate money. 


	3. 03

Harry had been waiting outside of her door for an hour or so when Hermione opened it and leaned out slightly. She said vaguely to the air in front of her nose, "I'd like a vegetable wrap without mayonnaise and a mineral water." She closed the door.

Harry sighed and got up.

* * *

Ten minutes later, he knocked at her door, awkwardly balancing a tray with one hand. He had just gone to the hotel's restaurant so it hadn't taken him long to acquire the food and drink.

Hermione opened the door and looked at him loftily. She pursed her lips and then opened the door wider. "I suppose you'd better come in."

Harry followed her into a comfortable sitting room with three sofas, a glass coffee table, and a television attached to a VCR. Hermione motioned for him to put the tray on the coffee table and sat imperiously down. She took the wrap and bit into it appreciatively. She chewed for a bit before looking at Harry.

"Aren't you going to have something? You don't look as if you could afford to skip a meal."

Harry shrugged. "I had a big breakfast."

She narrowed her eyes at him, then looked back to her lunch. "You can take the lid off that," she nodded to the bottle. "And you may as well make yourself comfortable. You'll be working with me for at least another few hours, as per McGonagall's request." Hermione took out a book from beside her, half-hidden behind one of the many cushions the sofa held.

Self-conscious, Harry sat down on a sofa adjacent to her own and stared down at his hands that rested on his knees. He didn't want to bother the snotty girl for something to read, or to ask if he could turn on the telly. He had lived fifteen long years with the Dursleys. He knew when to stay as quiet and still as humanly possible.

He let his mind and his eyes wander. Hermione Granger's suite was large and richly furnished. It had to definitely be costing her a few hundred a night to be staying here. But the very fact that she warranted a gofer of her own, and her age, meant that she was probably an actress; probably the main one, at that. She was pretty, Harry supposed, but not in the way he had expected an actress to be pretty. Certainly her skin was clear and her teeth were even and white: she was thin; but in a natural fashion – not like those who starved and threw up and had a sickly pallor – and her eyes were a deep cinnamon shade. Her hair fairly swallowed her head, though, and she seemed more suited to walking down sidewalks than runways, even though her clothes were all designer – right down to the probably-cost-fifteen-pounds-on-sale socks.

Harry looked down at his own clothes in silent embarrassment. He'd been designated Dudley's outgrown clothing for as long as he could remember. The clothes weren't overly dingy, because Dudley outgrew them quickly – in girth, if not in height; but they were too large on Harry's slight frame. The only clothes he had that fit were Mrs. Weasley's annual knitted sweaters for Christmas, and Harry had to admit that it was a bit warm out to be wearing them.

Harry looked at the book Hermione was reading: 'The Selected Works of Edna St. Vincent Millay'. He had no idea who that was. Hermione seemed intent, however, and her lips moved as she read.

He looked over at the television. Scattered movie cases were strewn on top of it. Harry couldn't read their titles from here, but none of them looked familiar, so were probably not new releases. Other than that, there was no discernable mess in the room. Harry liked that, because it meant he wouldn't have to clean up; but he also disliked it because without any comfortable mess, he had nothing to do, and no way to gauge this strange girl's temperament.

"You." Hermione's voice snapped like a whip.

Harry glanced quickly at her, startled. "Yes?"

"I'm bored here, cooped up. I want to go shopping."

Harry stood. "Alright."

Hermione's eyes widened, then narrowed rapidly. She put her book aside and stood as well, arms crossed confrontationally over her chest. "That's it? Alright? No screeching about people recognizing me and mobbing me in the street?"

"I reckon if you want to shop, you should shop. If people mob you, they mob you. You can't stop it."

Hermione's lips twitched in what suspiciously looked like a smile. "I think I'm going to actually like you." She winked conspirationally. "Don't tell McGonagall. I think the old bat'd faint from the shock."

* * *

Hermione had tried to disguise herself a little by putting on a headscarf and sunglasses. Harry had pointed out that these made her more conspicuous, not less, and she reluctantly agreed. She pouted, however, and said, "But it would've been such fun – just like James Bond movies."

They exited through the back way and endeavored to look like two normal teenagers out on the town. They didn't quite pull it off: Harry was too waif-like and Hermione too regal. Still, no one made special note of them as they went past, which was fortunate.

Hermione wanted to go to the bookstore first off. Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief; he'd been dreading following her into a clothing store, waiting for her as she tried on garment after garment. He trailed after her dutifully in the store, noting only that they were in the religious section, and then in the science one. They traveled to the history section, Hermione accumulating more books and promptly dumping them into Harry's arms. He didn't mind, for most of them were paperback, and he wasn't weak. Nearly all he weighed was muscle, even if he didn't weigh that much.

Hermione made a quick stop in literature, and then made for the till. The clerk was a grandmotherly woman whose eyes widened at the sight of all the books. She rang them up, totaling three hundred pounds: Harry's eyes widened in shock as he saw Hermione hand over her credit card calmly. That was more money than he saw in a year; in five years.

He ended up carrying the resulting bags, of course.

* * *

They had stopped for a snack at Fortescue's Ice Cream Emporium. Hermione got a strawberry-swirl cone and looked quizzically at Harry when he didn't order. "I'm not hungry," he replied to the unspoken question.

It wasn't a lie. Mrs. Weasley had fed him stack upon stack of pancakes that morning, and for Harry, that was more than he usually saw all day. The Dursleys didn't starve him or anything; they just forgot he existed, so forgot to save him food at meals (though he was the one to cook them), and he couldn't just take something out of the refrigerator. That would be stealing, as Petunia warned him over and over. But really Harry had no money to pay for the treat.

They sat in a corner booth facing each other. Hermione licked her cone meditatively and said, "I think, after this, I'd like to go to the supermarket."

Part of him wondered, 'Why the supermarket? She can just order in any food she wants.' But Harry had been raised to ask no questions, so he nodded instead and placidly replied, "Alright." He would just watch her and what she bought. After all, answers could be lies, but actions rarely were.

* * *

They walked along in silence, Harry swinging Hermione's bags, until they came to the nearest supermarket. Hermione headed straight for the herbs and spices, selecting several kinds. She stared in consternation at her full hands; Harry grabbed shopping basket and she deposited them there gratefully.

She led him down to the produce aisle and selected fresh peaches and grapes. She smelt the peaches before picking them, the look of concentration on her face almost comical. Harry knew from experience when a piece of fruit was bad or good – he'd done most of the Dursleys' shopping since he was twelve – so he stopped her from picking a few that would be overripe by the next day. She also grabbed some oranges and bananas, and then seemed satisfied and left the produce aisle. Harry followed her to the aisle that sold miscellaneous products like cards and bestsellers and yarn. Hermione zeroed in on the yarn, frowning in concentration as she fingered various skeins. She grabbed five balls of faded black wool and piled them on top of the fruit in the basket that hung off of Harry's arm.

They paid for it all (or rather, Hermione did and Harry's eyes again bugged out at the apparent cost of wool), and left for The Leaky Cauldron, Hermione with a pleased look on her face and Harry almost falling over from the weight of the bags on his arms. He'd never felt so much like a pack horse.

Strangely, he didn't mind.


	4. 04

By the time they'd gotten back to Hermione's room, Harry's arms were numb. The bag handles cut into his circulation and it was with great relief that he set them down on one of her sofas. Hermione seemed to have forgotten that she had even bought the items within the bags, for she was ignoring them entirely.

Instead she was looking through the scattered movies Harry had noticed earlier. She turned casually towards Harry and said, "I'd like some popcorn and a cola please. And take tray with you when you go."

Harry nodded and picked up the tray left over from her lunch. He was slightly surprised that Hermione had said 'please'. It was a new occurrence. "Do you want me to pick you up dinner as well?"

"Another wrap, please," Hermione replied absently, rummaging through her movie collection.

Harry nodded and left for the hotel kitchen. While he was waiting for the order, he glanced at the wall clock and his eyes widened. It was 4:45 already! If he didn't hurry home, the Dursleys' dinner would be late; and on Dudley's homecoming night, such negligence wouldn't be easily forgiven.

He ran back with the food to Hermione's room, depositing it quickly on the coffee table. "Sorry, I've go to go now or else my Uncle will kill me," he explained hastily. "It was nice to meet you and good bye."

Hermione looked a little bemused as Harry ran through the door. "See you tomorrow, Weasley." Harry didn't hear her.

He was already gone.

XXX

Luckily, the Dursleys had stayed in London all day, treating Dudley to a shopping spree so that their darling Dudders would have some new computer games to play that summer – not to mention a new gaming system and a big-screen television for his room to replace the older, smaller one; and the latest action movies as well. They wanted their precious boy to be able to relax, Petunia cooed.

They got home at 6:15 as the steaks were nicely browning, the potatoes already mashed and put in the oven so that they'd have a crust, and the pudding setting in the icebox. Harry was also baking a chocolate fudge cake, knowing how Dudley liked his desserts. He was just finishing the icing to coat the cake with when they came through the door, loud and obnoxious.

Petunia tore herself away from her 'Duddiekins' long enough to inspect the food and nod grudgingly. She knew her husband and son's tastes quite well too, and knew Harry had chosen the favourite of both. She brusquely ordered him to make a salad for her – a good wife ought to watch her figure, and she wouldn't want Dudley to be embarrassed by a fat mother – and rejoined her loving family in the den. Harry scowled and set the table.

He wasn't allowed to eat with them, of course; that had stopped the year he turned eleven, when Dudley had claimed his stink was offensive at the table. Petunia had banished him to the kitchen during mealtimes even during Dudley's school year, when it was just him and her most nights as Vernon worked late. He drank glass after glass of water in hope of numbing the distant bite of hunger in his stomach. It was because he had eaten that morning; big meals at the start of the day left him feeling particularly empty by the time dinner rolled around, and the smells coming from the dining room didn't help at all.

Harry waited until the desserts had been eaten before he broached the subject of his job with Vernon. Vernon had to be put in a jovial mood before being approached; Harry had to make his job sound like a good idea.

He exited the kitchen and waited for a lull in the conversation. It came soon enough.

Harry said, "Uncle Vernon? I've, er, found a job today."

Vernon turned from his son to glance at Harry coldly. "Oh?"

"It's, um," Harry stuttered, "not a very big job… but it'll help me to get experience and references for later, and it'll get me out of your way at home, and-"

"How much does it pay?"

The interruption had come from Dudley, who was leaning forward with an intent look in his piggish eyes. He had the remnants of his dessert smeared over his face, and was reaching for another slice of the cake when he'd spoken up.

"Er…" Harry froze up. Something told him not to tell the truth, so he didn't. "Forty pounds every two weeks. I told you, it's a very small job."

Dudley turned to his father. "Let him have this job," Dudley whined, "and make him give me the money. That way he won't waste it."

Harry barely stopped himself from scowling furiously at his cousin, and angrily thought, 'No, I won't waste it – you will!' He was very glad that he hadn't told the truth now, for Vernon was nodding.

"An excellent idea, son," he approved.

They all went back to ignoring Harry and he cleared the table with relief. They weren't going to make him quit! He would be free of them – gloriously free! – all summer!


	5. 05

The next morning found Harry hurriedly cooking breakfast for the Dursleys before rushing to the Leaky Cauldron. No one had told him when to come in each morning, and so he decided it would be better to be early than late. It was 7:14 when he stumbled into the lobby, and Penelope looked up with a smile to wave him in.

"Miss Granger's in make-up right now," Penelope told Harry cheerily. "She's got to shoot a few scenes today, and the only light suitable is before lunch; maybe a few hours into the afternoon as well, but probably not. The make-up studio is right new to Miss Granger's room; the door should be open."

"Thank you," Harry said, slightly shy. He didn't often talk with older, beautiful girls – he never knew what to say or how. He headed down the hall at a fast pace.

Harry could hear Hermione before the open door came into view. She was primly saying, "I'll do my own eyes make up, thank you. You pile the liner on so thickly – not to mention the eye shadow. It's tasteless and whorish."

"If the shoe fits-" a deep, sonorous, male voice replied.

"No one ASKED you, Snape," Hermione snapped.

Harry approached the open door warily. He disliked coming into conflicts uninformed, if at all. He resolved to wait a few seconds more, just to get a true feeling of how the wind blew in that room.

"I assume you've memorized your lines, or is that too much to ask of our young ingénue?"

"Oh, I've memorized them all right. And I'll act them too, which is more than I can say for SOME people, who stand like a wooden doll during delivery, with the

only expression in their voice."

"I'm not unaccustomed to being surrounded by those so unsophisticated that they do not recognized the subtleties of my art," the man – Snape, Harry surmised – replied silkily. "Unlike SOME people, I do not overact."

Hermione snorted. "Take the word 'over' out of that last sentence and it'll be the only time you haven't been talking out of your-"

"Good morning!" Harry finally entered the room, fearing the tension would escalate until it came to blows between Hermione and this man.

All five of the room's occupants turned to face Harry with surprise – Hermione and an older man in his late thirties were sitting on high stools, facing a row of mirrors, while three stylists hovered over them.

Hermione grinned when she saw Harry. "Weasley! Good morning." She glanced slyly over at the man, who had jet black hair, a beak-like nose, and black eyes. "Snape, this is Weasley, my gofer."

Snape glanced coolly at Harry and Harry almost shivered. "I suppose for one as unmotivated as yourself, a gofer would be a necessity." He suddenly stiffened and his eyes narrowed, looking Harry over thoroughly. "What did you say your name was, boy?"

"Er – George, sir. George Weasley."

"Hmm…" Snape tapped one long, spindly finger to his lips, then abruptly dismissed Harry from his thoughts and barked at the woman pulling at his hair to "Get on with it!"

Hermione rolled her eyes at Harry, conveying her exasperation with her coworker. She then leaned forward with a pencil of some kind to draw around her eye. She said, "Grab me a fruit bowl and a cup of tea, please. And something for lunch too – we won't be able to come back before we're through, and I don't want to be hungry."

Harry nodded in acquiescence. He was starting to get used to trips to the kitchen. The chef there, a small man who told Harry to just call him Dobby, was always ridiculously happy when Harry came by and tried to give him more food than Hermione had asked for.

Harry dodged various offerings of food from Dobby and returned to the make-up studio with no more than had been requested. He had Hermione's lunch – a wrap, like the one's she'd eaten the day before, plus some grapes and a water bottle – put in a paper bag.

His own stomach grumbled idly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten yet that morning; hadn't, in fact, eaten anything since the pancakes from Mrs. Weasley the day before. Harry shoved his hunger away and handed the fruit bowl to Hermione then warned her the tea was still too hot to drink. She murmured, "Thank you," absentmindedly, still messing around with her eyes while another man messed with her hair.

Harry took a seat nearby, and waited patiently until they were through. It took another twenty minutes before the stylists stepped away from the two actors with satisfied smiles on their faces, as well as looks of relief. Harry could sympathise; he'd been around Hermione long enough to know that her attitude was more than slightly abrasive – and Snape seemed no better.

When they were finally done, Hermione motioned for Harry to follow her. "We've got park scenes today," she explained. "We're trying to do all the scenes that require Snape and I alone in one fell swoop, because most of the other actors aren't here yet – especially not our leading actor. They're all supposed to be here by the end of the week, though."

"Which park are you going to?"

"Apple Grove," Hermione named: it was the same park Harry had met Ron in so many years ago. "The crew should be there already."

And so they were – Harry could pick out Ron's blazing red hair as soon as he stepped out of the car.

He followed Hermione as she was bustled off to a path that led to a small creek trickling across the park's length, and was told her cues by a camera man. Hermione nodded in understanding concerning the man's words, which was more than Harry could pull off.

A few moments later, a spry old man with snowy hair and twinkling eyes came down to them. "Excuse us, Mr. Weasley," the man said to Harry, and pulled Hermione aside. Harry couldn't hear what the old man was saying, but Hermione was nodding intently and asking questions, so it must have been important.

Ron's hand on his shoulder shocked Harry out of his concentration. "Morning, Harry," Ron said, and held out a sandwich. "Mum packed you a lunch, but I reckon you haven't had breakfast yet, so here."

Harry took the sandwich and tore into it gratefully. "Fanks," he said around a full mouth. He nodded towards the old man as he swallowed. "You know who that is?"

Ron chuckled. "Yeah, I'm working for him. That's Albus Dumbledore, the director."

Harry watched with renewed interest as Dumbledore and Hermione disengaged from their conference and Hermione picked up a handful of stones from the tiny bank the creek had on it sides. From this distance she seemed to be muttering to herself.

Dumbledore called out, "Action!"

………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Hermione threw a stone into the creek, watching the ripples grow steadily outward from the point of impact. She cast another stone.

Snape walked quietly up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I thought you'd end up here, Meg."

Hermione shrugged his hand off. "I want to be alone."

Harry started in surprise – Hermione's English accent was erased, completely gone, replaced by an American one. It made her voice seem harsher.

"You can't run away from this. You'll end up hating yourself."

"Maybe I already do. And didn't I already tell you to **_go away_**!" Hermione turned a little to face Snape. Her expression was twisted and anguished, angry. "It's not fair!" Her voice rose up in an ugly, despairing wail. "Why is he here now? Why not when I was six or ten or thirteen – all those time I NEEDED him! Why not then?"

Snape's face contorted into a pained grimace, but his voice was as kind as if he were taming a wild thing when he spoke: "Because life is ironic and stupid and unpredictable, and the only way to get through it is with a lot of pain. And I'm sorry, I really am, that you couldn't have your father for the first sixteen years of your life. But you can have him for the rest of it – all those other years. Don't give that up for a temper tantrum."

Hermione looked up at Snape, a tear trailing down her cheek. "Oh Syd," she said breathily. "I don't know if I can do this."

Snape gripped her shoulders solidly. They looked one another in the eye. "You can."

There was a long moment of silence;- then Dumbledore yelled, "Cut!"

Snape pulled his hands away as if Hermione were on fire and she rolled her eyes. "Could these lines be any more cliché!"

XXX

It was 2:30 in the afternoon and Harry and Hermione were sharing a bowl of popcorn as they watched an old movie on her telly. It was one of Hermione's tapes, and her best-loved film, which she'd said Harry HAD to watch, at least once.

"That's my favourite actress," Hermione pointed at the screen as a brunette beauty sauntered onto it. "Clementine Bowers. She was really big for five years before she faded into obscurity fifteen years or so ago."

Harry squinted. "She looks familiar," he offered. "Maybe I've seen a film of hers."

Hermione nodded. "You should have." She sighed in adoration. "She was so talented. It's a shame she gave it up – she was a rising starlet then, already well-established. If she had kept with it, she could have been one of the silver screen greats."

Harry shrugged. "Sometimes priorities change." He grabbed a handful of popcorn, and they watched the rest of the film in silence.

Afterwards, Hermione popped the movie out of the VCR and waved it in the general direction of her bedroom door. "Would you mind getting my book off of the side table in there? I'm going to find another film."

Harry nodded and opened her door. The bedroom was as richly appointed as the rest of her suite. He couldn't see much in the dim light, for the curtains of her windows were drawn, but he could make out her small bedside table with two noticeable lumps on it. He walked over to it, surprised when the lump that was not a book was, in fact, a knife.

Or rather a dagger, gleaming blade reflecting what little light the room held, handle ornate and silver. A dark stain coated the edge of the blade and Harry peered closely at it. Could it be-? Was it… blood?

Why would Hermione Granger, sixteen year old girl and actress, bibliophile to the extreme, have a bloodied knife next to her bed? Was she unhinged, as some child actors were said to be? Harry swallowed nervously. Had she… murdered someone? Here, in this room?

The lights flicked on above him, and he jumped in fright and startlement.

"Weasley, what's taking you?"

Harry stood rigidly as Hermione came closer to him. He didn't dare speak for fear that his voice would shake and betray his thoughts. He desperately tried to think of something innocuous to say; maybe pretend he hadn't noticed the dagger at all.

It was too late.

Hermione had come to stand beside him, laying a delicate (dangerous, Harry's mind insisted) hand on his elbow. "What are you looking at?"

"Uh… why do you have… that?" Harry pointed, and Hermione's gaze followed his finger. He could feel the whuff of her exhaled breath on the back of his neck as she sighed.

"Oh for goodness' sake, Weasley! It's just my athame!" She reached around Harry and grabbed the dagger off the table. Harry spun from her in alarm.

"Atha-what?"

Hermione held the knife pointed down. She looked into Harry's wary face with exasperated cinnamon eyes, but the quirk of her upper lip told him she was almost about to laugh – Harry had a brief, but intense, flashback to all the horror movies Dudley had ever forced him to watch as a child, and how the insane psycho murderers always had a hysterical, trilling laugh.

"Athame," Hermione said. "I'm a witch, Weasley."


End file.
